


spirit meets the bones

by theankletattoo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Louis, Canon Universe, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Healing, Insecure Louis Tomlinson, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Anxiety, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theankletattoo/pseuds/theankletattoo
Summary: The action shouldn’t fill his eyes with tears but it does. These small gestures mean the world to him. A steady reminder that Harry does notice all the tiny, seemingly insignificant details that make Louishim.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 136





	spirit meets the bones

**Author's Note:**

> again for ris. this randomly popped up and had your name emblazoned all over it.
> 
> title from taylor swift’s ivy.

Louis knows this.

They all begin the same way.

The birth of universe is because of a big bang. The birth of desire — the all consuming heat wrapping him up in blurry red, his body an instrument, ready to be played — is because of swallowing words.

But once there are words overflowing from his throat, no space left to push them back down into him, no chance of them dissolving in the acids and all the flames that lick his viscera, they never stop pouring out.

They shine in his mouth, every laugh glitter speckled, the strings of his body gleaming under the bright lights, sunlight trapped in his movements, drawing Harry closer and closer until the source of the bright glow is indiscernible.

For the most part Louis stays away from Harry, content in saving it for somewhere more private, behind closed hotel rooms, the farthest dressing room, the twilight hours when everything is suspended, breaths delicate and intimate, nothing but name of him on his lips — worshipping.

It is one of those days where he is run down to his very bone, the white of his eyes slightly red with lack of sleep, exhaustion weighing his limbs and a jumble of sounds falling out of him — none that are important, they are to fill the silences — when Harry tugs him away, waving at their friends.

Louis wants to throw a tantrum just for the sake of it. “Harry, what the fuck, I was talking to them!”

“You were rambling, babe,” he coolly replies, long fingers wrapped around his arm, guiding him.

“I was _not_ ,” he weakly crows, another wave of exhaustion crashing over him.

Now that his head is relatively silent, it always is around Harry, he can pinpoint where the tiredness is erupting from, bathing him in a frantic energy.

He always does the same thing when he is low on energy. He puts on an overenthusiastic mask and proceeds to push himself until he drops down.

Or until his Harry puts an end to it.

Very similar to what he is doing now except Louis has worked himself up.

His hand travels upwards to rest heavily on his nape, the sharp contrast of the cold metal and warm skin clouding his thoughts.

“We’re going to sleep and you will not fight me on this.” The firm set of his jaw leaves no room for argument.

Hotel sheets are always too clean, too sterile, too slippery for him to stay in place but Harry makes it all a bit more bearable.

He clings to his back, burying his nose in his curls, inhaling the familiar scent of apple shampoo, hairspray and sour sweat.

If he could see himself he would see the way his blinding light dims into a comforting warmth, something that will remind him of candlelight dinners and watching his lover’s face illuminated by the yellow streetlights on their walk back home.

Tears swirl in his eyes, the red washing out, sleep and dream made of orange evenings painting themselves behind his lids.

Harry tightens his hold, trying to contain all of him, his burning body, his aching soul.

///

The next time Louis opens his eyes there is bright light pouring through the high glass windows, sunlight no longer pale and soft but harsh and glaring.

The bed holds nothing but an imprint of his lover.

He trots into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, does his business and watches the hints of life hidden in his eyes.

A cacophony of noises, Harry kicking his boots off, hip bumping into the door trying to shut it, paper bags crinkling, rings tapping against the glass coffee table as he sets down whatever food he’s brought up for him.

Louis tucks the sleep curled strands behind his ears, thumbs at the long pillow mark on his cheekbone, watches the slow blink of his lashes, the constellation of freckles dotting his cheek.

Harry is in the process of getting out of his skinnies, bare toes wiggling as he jumps around on one foot, pulling the rest of the black material off his legs, hair raised with static, skin a little tight and chapped.

“Hi, love.” He wraps one arm around his shoulders, his bare nape brushing his tattooed upper arm.

He curls into him. “You left me,” he quietly says, not accusing but maybe a little hurt. A little scared.

“I’m sorry, baby. Went to get you breakfast,” Harry murmurs, leaning down and pressing his lips right where the pillow mark is, kiss dry and nose cold.

His head is fuzzy, he must be down. “It’s noon, isn’t it?”

A rumble of his chest, a nod he feels more than sees, and another dry kiss.

“When was the last time you slept more than a couple of hours, Lou?”

Louis presses his back into his chest, sitting in between his legs, the bed still warm from their bodies, chewing a misshapen strawberry, thinking and drawing a blank.

He shrugs, shoulder almost knocking into Harry’s jaw. “I don’t know? Two weeks ago in Milan?”

“Baby.” It’s a sigh filled with both worry and reprimand.

Another strawberry, juices sticky and mouth red. “I know. I’m trying.”

“You should’ve come to me. I take care of you, don’t I?”

Louis squirms and turns sideways to meet his eyes, green and gold flecked, earnest and clear. “Fuck me.”

“We need to talk about this, Louis. Stop trying to distract me.”

“I’m too overwhelmed to think, fuck me boneless and we will talk.”

“Sex is not the answer to that.”

Furiously chewing and clearing his bowl of fruit, he pushes it aside to kiss Harry.

He weakly protests, soon melting into the kiss, tongue darting out to lick inside his mouth to taste the tartness of the fruit.

“I want you. Do you want me?”

It’s unfair of him to use Harry’s Achilles heel — _he is both his Achilles and his Achilles heel_ — to get what he wants but sometimes he needs the push.

When they don’t share the same definition of the push, a man has to do what he needs to.

As expected a big paw cups his jaw, rough thumb stroking the fading pillow crease, just like he had done in the bathroom except there is more heat behind it, the touch has an intention, something his own lacked.

“You never make it easy for anyone, baby.” He sounds fond and a swarm of butterflies flap their delicate wings in sync with his heartbeat.

Before he can formulate a response Harry’s teeth are sinking into the thin flesh of his neck, right over the jugular, biting him like he wants to brand him, unforgiving and relentless, staking his claim.

Colours burst in him, pink on his cheeks, red blotches his chest, purple blossoms line the length of his throat, his knuckles are white where they are gripping the material of Harry’s shirt.

“So many words and not one is useful,” he gripes, taking on a mean edge.

His body is ripe as the summer berries he had snacked on, blood rushing to his crotch at the sharp jab of humiliation.

The teeth are gone, instead plush lips are pressing down on the love bites, sucking on the skin only to darken them, keep them there for a bit longer, so Louis can remember this flash of pain and pleasure and humiliation blending into one big feeling that overpowers the anxious thoughts hammering in his head.

“Is this what you wanted, love? Me to push you around, bite you, leave pretty marks all over you?” He noses at the cut of his jaw. “Make you cry?”

Louis swallows harshly because yes, that is exactly what he wants and Harry is willing to give him that.

The hand gently petting his face slips lower, thumb pressing into the fresh bruise, tightening the grip, slightly cutting off his air.

“Words, baby. You were so mouthy last night. Where did that go, hm?”

“Yes, H. I want all of that.”

His hold loosens again, the strain now gone, breathing easier. His eyes shut on their own.

Harry’s cocky smile is buried in his shoulder. “Wasn’t so hard, was it, baby?”

His whisper is frail. “No.”

“So good for me, darling. Can I touch you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yes, please,” he keens, arching into the fingers trailing over his joggers, trying to rut forward and find some relief, even though he knows what will follow.

It’s usually the same for the most part and he loves the familiarity of it but seldom does Harry initiate this. This – the power exchange, him having the upper hand, taking any and all control Louis might have over himself, leave him begging for mercy.

He palms at the bulge. “Louis, baby, look at me.”

With herculean effort Louis manages to pry his eyes open and meet Harry’s mossy greens.

“Thank you, love. Do you want to keep quiet?”

He ponders over it, he could he quiet, bite his lip, tongue and cheek, muffle his whines into the dips of Harry’s shoulders, mewl into his kisses.

He could also be loud, hold none of it back, scream until his cries echo till the far end of the corridor.

“I don’t know, Haz. I’m not sure.” His words are too quiet and too loud all at once, ringing in his ears.

Harry’s face softens. “Whatever you want, darling. Whatever you need.”

The weight of his body is gone for a few seconds, panic slowly sets in, sweat beads at his hairline despite the AC being cranked up, muscles in his thigh jumping.

“Hey, hey, hush, love. I’m here with you,” he coos, warm and honeyed, breath fanning across his face, muscles going lax.

“Want you to come on my fingers and then I’m going to take care of you. How does that sound, my love?”

Louis only whines in reply, desire filling his mouth, row of teeth lined with lust. “Wanna suck you off after that.”

“You’re always gagging for it, baby.” Harry kisses his belly button, sweet and innocent, no trace of the man who is spewing out filthy promises.

“C’mon up, wanna see your pretty cock.”

It should be illegal — the way his mouth wraps around the words like _come_ and _cock_ and _fuck_ _,_ dimples out and curls askew, framing his face like a fucking halo, looking angelic.

Louis is not far off from the wrecked angel look either. Maybe one orgasm far.

“Please,” he brokenly whimpers, trying to buck up, searching for friction.

Harry tsks. “Oh no, love. You’re going to stay still for me. You can be loud or quiet but you are not going to move. Clear?”

Another wave of want crashes over him, his trapped cock twitching and hole clenching in anticipation. “Clear,” he parrots back, struggling to keep his eyes open.

He doesn’t want to miss the awe that lights up his lover’s face when he is wrecking him, piece by piece, making him fall apart.

Gently he pulls the boxers off his body and down his legs, hands caressing as inches of golden skin is exposed to his adoring eyes.

“On your front,” he requests, tapping two fingers where he knows there is a mole.

The action shouldn’t fill his eyes with tears but it does. These small gestures mean the world to him. A steady reminder that Harry does notice all the tiny, seemingly insignificant details that make Louis _him_.

He pushes his forehead into the pillow, back arching.

Harry spreads his legs apart to kneel between the V of them, ghost touches skittering along the plump flesh of his arse.

Soft mewl slips past his lips at the sound of metal meeting wood.

“Lift your hips for a second, Lou,” he orders, snatching a pillow and fluffing it.

His dick brushes the cold pillow case, a shudder travels down his spine.

The bottle’s snick is loud and jarring, clearing a little of the clouds he had lost his head in.

A cold finger prods around his rim, getting the lube on the fine hairs.

That feeling is back, the one where his body is a tight strung instrument and he is waiting for Harry’s clever fingers to strum him, pull a melody out of him.

The beginning of a melody is heavenly. His finger is sunk in till the second knuckle, softly twisting around, coating his walls with the flavoured lube they only buy so their fingers don’t smell like arse. 

It brings an abrupt smile to his face.

The pillow under him has a wet patch, precum soaking the fabric, the thick vein throbbing.

Soon enough he’s got three fingers fucking into him, a gravelly voice in his ears telling him good and perfect he is being, a rough hand stroking him to the rhythm of his thrusts.

The melody swells, the wet squelch ricochets off the walls, it steals his stuttering breath, cracks his posture and paints the sheets under him white.

“So perfect for me, sweet baby,” Harry murmurs, rubbing between his shoulder blades, the back of his hand warm and sticky with lube and come, drawing opaque wings on his honey skin.

Tears drip down his face, salty rivulets cleaning any grime off the constellations, the stars bright on his cheeks.

“Harry, please.”

“Oh, hush, darling. What do you need, lovely?”

“Anything—” he gasps, clawing at the sheets, trying to turn around but Harry’s words keep ringing in his ears. “Can I move?”

Harry makes a proud sound of assent. “My baby, you are so perfect. Always listen to me, don’t you, sweetheart. I love you,” he blabbers, helping him turn around.

Louis grimaces as the drying come on his skin smears across the tear soaked sheets. 

He grins, feeling mirth dance around his pink mouth. “Love you too. Can I suck your dick now?”

Harry giggles and leans in to brush noses. He tucks the sweaty hair behind his ear and pecks his nose. “Since you asked so nicely,” he drawls out, crawling higher on his chest to feed him his hard cock.

The weigh is familiar and it allows him to collect his words for Harry. Louis lazily suckles on the head, swallowing the drops of bittersweet precum, humming in contentment.

“Spit or swallow?”

“Spit,” he manages, cock halfway down his throat, syllables garbled, saliva dripping down his chin.

Harry gives him one of his lovely smiles and taps his bulged cheek, fingers dry — he always wipes them on the sheets and complains about the stickiness and Louis lets him.

“Gonna come on your face, that okay, love?”

Pulling off with a pop, he widens his eyes and peers through his thick lashes.

Calm envelopes him as hot come dribbles down the sharp planes of his face.

///

A languid shower and a change of sheets later they are back in bed, Harry feeding him the browned apple slices, teeth sunk into his lower lip, waiting for his cue.

“Kiss?” He requests, puckering his mouth, drawing a sunshine laugh from his boyfriend.

The kiss soon turns desperate, tongues lapping up at the ink in their mouths from the words, confessions and questions and promises tucked away in corners, where the apple juice is sour not sweet.

Louis pulls back and traces the swallows, raising his arms up, pouting to be cradled, so he can rest his weary head on Harry’s solid chest for a while, just until he catches his breath and can resume their kissing.

“Talk to me,” he finally says, the armour of his patience cracking, spilling out mercurial rays.

“I don’t want you to pity me,” he grits out, gaze flickering all over the room.

Harry huffs out a hollow laugh. “Lou, I’m not going to pity you, Jesus. I want to know what’s making you so antsy.”

This bit is never the same, he never knows how or what it will end in. They could go down blazing in flames or soar high into the sky with softened hues of adoration.

He untangles himself from the safe hold and loosely tangles their fingers instead. “I’m scared, Harry.”

They flow out of him with a whoosh, leaving behind an emptiness that doesn’t very much feel like it.

“Baby, what is it that’s scaring you so much?”

This is the ugliest part of it all, the part where he feels guilt pool in his gut along with dread because Harry is always so lovely, so kind and here he is, burning out.

Louis wants to pluck the rose tinted glasses that adorn his face and show him the parts of him that he hates, that he wishes he could erase — but hesitation and self doubt make him clam up. Freeze his blood and force him to hide further.

“I’m scared I won’t be enough anymore.”

The truth sets you free, at least that is how he remembers the saying as.

“Oh, Louis.”

Harry tackles him into a hug, squashing him into the crisp bedsheets, his heartbeat pressing into his chest, irises glittering like emeralds. “Baby, you are more than enough.”

An ache twines itself along his ribcage, thorns pricking the red muscle, washing his insides in it.

“You say I’m your star but, baby, darling, honey, Lou, my love and every other endearment to ever exist— you are my sun. The brightest star I know. You brighten up my day with your smile — fuck, you just exist and I feel blessed.”

Words have always scared him, they’ve hurt him and broken him, left him with shards of his shine littering his mouth and hands but they’ve also give him strength, healed him and joined the broken glow into something wider.

Harry’s words have healed him but they are not trees, their roots do not end at one point to dig the soil and cure the finite length of it.

His soul is long and everywhere, pushed and shoved into cramped nooks of his brain till he forgot how beautiful the shine, the light it provides him is.

“You know I don’t want us to be like _the couple that heals each other because they are together_ , right?” The lilt to his face is calmer, collected.

The birth of desire has grown into a need to understand each other intimately — know the run of words that bring each other comfort, the sock with a hole in the toe, worn down and familiar.

“I do,” Harry says and there is a zap of heat, a vision of them standing in an altar, surrounded by flowers, repeating those same words.

The day is nowhere near — not until Louis sees himself the way Harry does. The stardust, the glitter, the yellow light, the dreams where they are at peace, together, with his body, mind and soul existing in harmony.

He might never get used to this light that runs in his veins, he might hide in the glare but a flower grows in middle of the harshness, a bloom of love, reminding him.

Instances won’t end the same, they begin different and each time it takes more and more out of each other to bare themselves fully, give into the needs, succumb to the desires but a bud of hope exists.

He will make it — he will have love forevermore.

They never end the same way.

Louis knows this.

**Author's Note:**

> [tweet](https://twitter.com/theankletattoo/status/1343645186727940097?s=19)   
>  [fic post](https://hadestyles.tumblr.com/post/638777137692835840/spirit-meets-the-bones-by-theankletattoo)


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